Of Envelopes
by cachexica
Summary: For years she received anonymous letters. They were a complex equation that needed to be solved and Hermione Granger couldn't rest until she had received full marks. [DM/HG; ONESHOT, Setting: 5th Year]


**beta-ed by the awesome LiterallyLiterary**

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**OF ENVELOPES**

**By grey chemistry**

The envelopes and the letters within were an intriguing mystery, something shrouded in her history at Hogwarts. They were a complex equation that destined to be solved—picked apart and studied. And she, Hermione Granger, found herself unable to cease until she received full marks.

It remained a mystery as to who sent them, but she intended to find out as quickly as possible. Hermione knew her recent readings concerning Graphology would help her decipher the covert that lay in her hands—a large manila envelope which housed the many envelopes she had ever sent or received.

She sat on the fresh green grass by the lake as dusk approached, away from the eyes of the world and took out numerous pieces of rugged parchments, enclosed in envelopes—some old, some new, and all of great importance. Her fingers rifled through the papers, choosing one at random. As fate would have it, the document turned out to be her acceptance letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—or, as she fancied it, the beginning of everything.

The envelope's plain-white cover had faded with time—four and a half years to be precise—and gave way to a delicate shade of cream underneath. The calligraphy embossed upon it, however, still shone like it had the first time she set her eyes upon it lo those many years ago. The memory, it seemed, remained fresh, safe behind the carefully sketched walls of her mind.

_"Mummy! Look, mummy! I got a letter," her eleven year-old self had yelled. "It's addressed to me!"_

_"A letter? What does it say dear?" her mother replied from the kitchen, thinking it must have come from one her daughter's friends._

_"That I am to go to a place named, 'Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry' and term starts 1st September," she said, utterly quirked._

_"What? Let me look at it…. Wendell!"_

Her parents had examined the letter curiously, carefully, and after that, they had been nothing but proud, supportive and nurturing.

A cool breeze brought her back to the present as it rustled the dry leaves underfoot. She shuffled through the bundle again, this time emerging with an envelope addressed to her parents, the paper appearing to be in better condition than the previous. She remembered clearly writing and, later, duplicating this one.

_Dear Mum,_

_I found some time today to answer your letter. I am doing well. Harry and Ron are too. Except today, Ron's poor broken wand backfired on him and caused him to vomit slugs for almost an entire hour. I cannot imagine where he learned that spell- probably from his rotten older brothers._

_You may wonder why Ron was trying to use such a spell. Well today, our Quidditch team got in a bit of a row with the Slytherin team. Slytherin has a new Seeker this year—Draco Malfoy. His father's rich and seems to be in good standing in the Ministry. He brought all of them brand new brooms so that his son could be the Seeker. I clearly expressed my views regarding that, naturally (because it's absolutely preposterous). I told them that at least everybody on Gryffindor got on the team by virtue of their talent, rather than money. Draco Malfoy stopped, came right up to me and said, "No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood." He called me a "Mudblood"._

_I know that doesn't mean much to you Mum, so I'll explain a little. It is a very foul name for witches or wizards with non-magic parents, like me. Apparently, Malfoy and his family don't like Muggles or Muggle-borns very much and he thinks that I'm inferior because my ancestors, great-grandparents, grandparents and parents didn't go to Hogwarts—basically that I'm not what they call a "pure-blood". Even though I can do every spell in the book and I'm better than him at almost everything._

_But don't worry Mum. It doesn't bother me. Not in the slightest. I'll just prove to him and everybody else that a Muggle-born can be as good, or better, at magic than any Pureblood. In fact, I'll be the best witch that this school has ever known. You'll see. Everyone will see._

_Write back soon._

_\- Love, Hermione_

Hermione folded the letter and put it back in its place as a sigh worked its way out of her lungs. The word continued to reverberate through the bends of her mind. And even though she thought she wouldn't try bothering with it, the hurt was still there, sharp as it was on that fateful day so long ago. She attempted to turn away her attention from that particular incident and instead ran her fingers through the bundle to find what she had been searching for in the first place.

Looking intently, her eyes caught the ivory whites and she hurriedly pulled them out of their tightly wedged spaces. Around twenty of them were there. She remembered receiving the first one in her second year at Hogwarts. She had read each and every one of them time and time again, but still hadn't been able to place the enigmatic writer. It might have been because each time she sat to examine them, her friends had interrupted her, or a fellow classmate had become all too nosy. But, she decided, not this evening. This time she would sit undisturbed and merely think.

The structure of the letters themselves were odd. Some were simply a single sentence while others exceeded a thousand words. Some were stories while others were feelings and emotions, splayed out vividly on the pages. Some complimented her while others were downright nasty. But one thing seemed to be common—they were written by someone she hadn't really known. Or, so she assumed.

The possibility that someone had been stalking her had come up in her mind, and today the though remained. For now, though, she brushed aside the atrocious thought, arranged the mysterious letters in the order of their arrival and began reading through them yet again. The paper was thick and of high quality, the corners of them embellished.

The first one was merely a single statement written in a narrow-spaced script.

_5.10.1992_

_I hate you, Hermione Granger._

It had not been signed, and neither had any of the others—it would have made her life all too simple. Hermione quickly slipped the letter back into its ivory envelope as she speculated. Many people hated her, she knew that well enough, but why did this particular insult hurt so much worse that all the others? Perhaps because someone had troubled him or herself with the act of writing the retched statement then sending it personally. How could anyone, she wondered for what had to have been the thousandth time, be so full of spite?

She'd analysed the handwriting time and time again. It was distinctly masculine, no curves or loops, just sharp endings and rigid curves. From whatever she had studied of Graphology, she could interpret that this person, the person who was sending her all these anonymous letters whenever she was in abandoned halls, was, quite simply, desolate. The narrow writing and excessive curling indicated much more than the writer might have hoped for. For instance, flourish in the loop of the small G was almost sneering. Almost. More pride, than anything else. And what was that—that droop at the end of all the E's? Ah... Hurt.

So, this person was lonely, proud, and somewhat indignant. Hermione, however, hadn't known such a soul. A clear blank settled in her mind as she continued with the second letter. It was much longer than the first and, hopefully, it would be able to tell her more about its writer than its predecessor.

_2.9.1993_

_Not-at-all-dear Hermione Granger,_

_You have put me in an extremely sour mood today and I hate you for it. Were it not for you, then I would never have been scolded. Why do you have to be such a know-it-all? Why do you have to be so bloody bright in every subject? What fun do you get from it? Just take my advice and keep that springy hand of yours down next time, otherwise I just might be tempted to hex you to oblivion._

_\- From: Someone Who Hates You_

Another sigh escaped her as she switched out the letter for a third. This one didn't tell much, except that her mysterious writer had been full to the brim of jealousy.

_19.11.1993_

_Hermione Granger,_

_I am fine and I dearly hope that you're not fine. So how's life treating you? Is it miserable, like I picture it? I hope it is because you're nothing more than a freak and a bushy haired know-it-all._

_I heard you punched Draco Malfoy in the face today. I don't appreciate it. He's my friend and you'll pay dearly._

_\- From: Someone Who Hates You_

Two additional clues were given in this message. 1) The possibility of the writer being in Slytherin House and therefore a friend of Malfoy, meaning that 2) he was, more likely than not, a pureblood. How much more loathing would she have to sift through, she thought, before coming upon something substantial? Since she had been in a hurry and merely scanned through most of the letters over the years, she'd naturally jump to those which came last year. Those were the longer and, gratefully, much less offensive. This was the longest, most perplexing puzzle Hermione had ever encountered.

The whole ordeal really was a mess.

Exactly as she remembered, the letters from her fourth year were much better than those that had come prior to them. Once more, she began reading.

_7.10.1994_

_Still-not-dear Hermione Granger,_

_It has been a long time since I've written to you, hasn't it? Now that I've realised it, I suppose I have procrastinated for long and hence decided to write and get it over with quickly. After all these years, you may be wondering about a few things—like why I write to you, or rather, who am I (which I know is the more pressing of the two). I think I will answer the first question, though._

_You see, you're contradictory to everything that I stand for. The first time I met you, I thought you were just a bossy little girl with an attitude problem. Then I learnt that you have the brains to go with that cocky persona of yours, and that's when the problem really began._

_You had everything I could imagine- loyal friends, not allies; teachers' admiration, not mock praise because of the power your surname carried; courage and love. I've never had that. Never in my life has someone praised me truly, except for my mother. And to see you have all of that, I started hating you. There were some other things that contributed as well, but those I'd rather not mention._

_But those reasons were never the prime reason to hate you. They just added wood to the fire. Truth be told, someone can never hate you in the true sense, Hermione Granger._

_\- From Someone Who Still Hates You, Just a Little Less Than Before_

_P.s. - You were a comical sight with those enlarged molars. I bet no one would ask you to the ball._

The time of those aforementioned enlarged molars of hers had long gone by—she'd even tricked Madame Pomfery into making them smaller than their natural length (one of her better, and only, ruses). It was the only indirectly positive thing that Malfoy had ever done for her. She smirked at the memory, knowing that whoever this boy was must have been speechless when she had turned up with Viktor Krum for the Yule Ball.

Around her, the cool autumnal breeze continued disheveling the fallen leaves as the sky made its way into night. These, however, were not things she noticed as she read on.

_25.12.1994_

_Dear Hermione Granger,_

_Yes, I started the letter with a 'dear'. Get over it. Just wanted to let you know that I had no idea that you had the power to look even remotely appealing._

_\- A Temporary Admirer_

_P.s. Still hating you. I know I will get over the disturbing fact that you looked good—no, stunning._

She read it over again. The phrase, 'no, stunning' had been cut through with a horizontal line.

Who could it have _been_? The question circulated through her mind as she attempted to match a face to the handwriting. Nott? Zabini? Bludwurm, Lapoge, or Lethe? Sunserry...? _Malfoy?_

No, _not_ Malfoy. Definitely not him. He'd already insulted her publicly enough. He wouldn't trouble himself to send personal letters…would he? Malfoy would never openly admit to her that he was jealous of her or that he liked her temporarily, either. No, he would never do that. His egotistical soul would never allow it—never even so much as _think_ it.

Hermione was lost in her thoughts when she suddenly heard the flapping of wings that came from somewhere behind her. Turning around, she saw a slate-grey school owl, and instantly recognised it. In fact, she herself had used that very owl many a time to send letters of her own. Attached to its foot was an envelope addressed to her. Ivory white.

She took hold of it tenderly when she realised that each time she had received any one of the strange letters, she had never seen nor heard the owl in question. But now, it was so near her, so tempting. She didn't know who sent the letters, but surely this owl did. The temptation to send a reply entered her mind just as soon as the owl raised its wings for a take-off. But Hermione was quicker.

"_Immobulus_!" she cried, the spell shooting out of the tip of her wand as she raised it to the owl. The bird froze on the spot.

"Sorry", she muttered weakly to it, but freezing it was imperative at this point. The owl remained motionless as she removed the parchment. To her utter surprise, a black rose fell out as she tugged on the letter. A single sentence had been scribbled haphazardly.

_16.9.1995_

_I am sure you know what this means._

And that she did. She knew all too well. This person was trying to tell her about the beginning something new, a journey into unexplored territory. But what, she asked herself. This whole affair was cryptic in the first place, and yet more mystery was being added to the pot. She hated not finding answers.

Hermione gently put back the rose back into the envelope and jotted down a hasty reply.

_Who are you, and what, exactly, is this supposed to mean?_

She didn't expect he would tell her, but it didn't hurt to try. She released the owl from the binding spell and apologised to it again after she fastened her note to its leg.

"Return this to whoever sent you here," she told the owl, waiting for its flighty escape. It was quite dark by then and she decided that enough progress had been made that evening when she heard a drawling voice say-

"Well, well, well. Who do we have here?"

Her head snapped up to see none other than the smug face of one Draco Malfoy, a smirk resting elegantly on his lips.

"I thought you had rounds tonight Malfoy," she said cautiously as she stood, facing Malfoy.

"Oh I do, but I chose to spend my time here, tormenting you," he said smoothly. Then, "What, is this not a good time? Should I come back later?"

Hermione couldn't help but scoff. "I am sorry," she started, then revised the statement. "Actually, I'm not, but either way I don't have time to stay and chat," she spat as she bent down to gather her letters. Momentarily, she looked upwards, towards the sky, expecting to see the owl flying away with her letter, returning to its owner. Instead she saw it fluttering nervously high above them. "What? Go!" she shouted to it, forgetting for a moment that Malfoy was still lurking there.

"Sending love letters to Weasley, Granger?" he said as he followed her gaze to the owl. Hermione could tell at once that he was nervous. It was almost as if…as if he _knew _that owl. Which was preposterous to even think, as that was the owl used to communicate with Hermione by her seemingly almost-admirer.

"Whatever," he said suddenly, his voice wavering. He ran is palms down his pants, an anxious gesture, if Hermione did say so herself. What on earth did he have to be concerned about?

Without warning, he turned on his heel and strode away, but not before the owl found who it was looking for. The thing swooped down after its few moments of confused circling and perched eloquently upon Draco's shoulder. Hermione's eyes widened in astonishment as she saw the bird give his ear an amiable peck.

"It was _you_," she said as soon as the words formed in her mind.

Draco halted mid-step as she said it, remaining silent, not daring to face her.

"All the time I've been questioning and speculating and _wondering_ and it turns out to be you? _You_?"

"So what if it was?" he said suddenly. "What's it to you?" His voice was gruff, his back still turned toward her.

Hermione took a few tentative paces in his direction and stopped when she was directly behind him. "What's it to me?" she demanded. "For three years I receive these letters from an anonymous person, border-lining on stalker, and you have the nerve to ask what it is to _me_?" she said incredulously. "Why the rose? The compliment, Malfoy?" she added in a quiet tone. He turned to face her then, her unopened letter in his hand, the bird gone.

"For the topper of our year, you're a bit thick." he said. It almost seemed like he wanted to laugh. "This is going to sound completely mental," he started, his eyes flicking over each inch of her face, but never meeting her eyes, "but…something happened to me that night at the Yule Ball, seeing you in those blue robes. Like a—a wave of realisation had washed over me. I saw you in a new light. Suddenly, you weren't a victim of society, forced to be depressed because of your blood status. Instead of that, you were a hidden warrior, triumphing in your, er, glory," he added a bit sheepishly, not realising his rambling.

Hermione was shell shocked, to say the least. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected Draco Malfoy to say such kind, if not a bit interesting, words to her.

It seemed, though, that he wasn't done with his confession. "That rose, it…it was meant to start over. For me to start over. It wouldn't make sense to you, but it makes sense to me. Perfect sense. On that night, I had vowed that I would be just a 'temporary admirer' but I couldn't do that. You had affected me in ways more than one. Once I opened that door, you stood in the doorway and demanded it to be left open. You tend to have that effect on me. First it was hate, then, I don't know, it was attraction. Like a light was turned on and I couldn't find the bloody switch to turn it back off. So I wrote stupid letters to you and contented myself with keeping watch from afar."

She hadn't heard anything beyond 'attraction', though. "Did you just say 'attraction'?" she inquired, not trusting her own ears. A furious blush had crawled onto her cheeks, and she found herself thanking her lucky stars it was so dark.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I did," Draco replied hesitantly, rubbing the back of his neck. If she didn't know better, she'd say he was blushing, too.

Her mouth, it seemed, had suddenly lost its ability to speak.

"I remember reading somewhere that angst is not the human condition, it's the purgatory between what we have and what we want but can't get. I can't get you, Granger, never could and never would. It was simple as that." He seemed to realise, then, that he just spilled his deepest secret to the one person he definitely should _not_ have. Draco composed himself, biting the inside of his cheek and said, "You shouldn't expect any more letters from me." And then his arms, lean but strong nonetheless, wound around her in their first and last embrace.

This time it was not an envelope made of exquisite ivory white paper. No, this time it was an envelope made up of a faint, spicy aroma and furious clutching of arms containing a letter made up of too many unexpressed, unrequited feelings. It surrounded her, engulfed her in its halo of mysterious luminescence.

And then he was gone, almost as abruptly as he'd come. The night darkened tenfold in the moments after he left, leaving questions on her tongue and a coldness in her bones that she couldn't quite seem to explain.

The equation, it seemed, had been at once solved. But the solution remained undefined.

DAS ENDE

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